I don’t know if you remember me. Heck, I don’t want to remember you, but unfortunately, I do. On most days, I forget that you exist in the same universe but on some days, it is hard to not notice you — what with all your “achievements” and such.
You were my teacher in school. You were strict, unforgiving, demanding; you looked scary and you loved to terrify me and my classmates. Honestly, I think you fed off our fear and that gave you a sense of accomplishment. You made us write impositions, made us redo homework assignments, shouted at us in class, and even humiliated us in the worst ways possible: “Does your mother not teach you? I don’t have time for your stupidity.” or “Do you have a learning disability? Perhaps this is not the school for you” or “Look at your friend, she studies so well, what is wrong with you?” and the worst of all: “I hate you. I wish you were never my student. You will never be successful in your life”. All these sound horrifying just to read; imagine how it must have been to 12–13–14 year old kids who are on the verge of puberty and everything can cause a permanent dent on the psyche.
I owe most of my teachers a lot of gratitude. I love them for encouraging my interests, my ability to understand and challenge accepted norms, appreciate and grasp complex concepts. I owe them all a special place in my heart because they made me who I am today.
But you ________ ma’am, I wish you were never my teacher.
Pappa says it is wrong to hate you because you are a teacher. He says teachers are given a status on par with parents and they are tasked with shaping our curiosity, ideas, concepts, and most importantly, our minds. “Don't be disrespectful to teachers” was his constant refrain. Maybe that was what he was taught. Maybe he lived by the principle of the shloka ‘Guru Brahma Guru Vishnu…’ but I don’t think he has any idea how undeserving you are of any ounce of respect.
You used to hit us. You used to hit the boys on their butts and the girls on their cheeks. You used to carry a wooden scale to class especially when tough concepts were to be taught. We were too scared to ask/clarify our doubts. You ended every class with a homework assignment and if a student were to forget the assignment (either didn’t bring the book or forgot to do it) that student used to dread the entire day for your class. You always had a scowl on your face — I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile, ever.
Part of why you were terrifying was your ability to tear notebooks into pieces and dump them in the dustbin, all the time glaring at the student as if they were next in line to be put into the same dustbin. I think you used to get a high when we shivered in our breath, our hands getting cold, blue in the face, all the while sweating when asked to recite the 17 multiplication tables in front of the entire class. Your eyes twinkled in a manic-like craze when you were about to hit a student with your wooden scale on their knuckles when they missed what 17X7 was.
I remember one day you came into class when you were in your usual foul mood. The whole class was uncomfortable with your anger which was evident on your face. It felt like a time-bomb waiting to explode on all of us. That day, my friend hadn’t submitted her homework that morning because she had forgotten to bring the notebook to school. You could see, smell and listen to her fear. “Sorry ma’am, I forgot to bring the homework book today. I will bring it tomorrow and show it to you. I have done the homework, I promise!” she had begged, almost pleaded.
You struck her three times on her cheeks. Both of them. She broke down at every slap. The whole class was quietly witnessing this abuse, secretly thanking God that they were not standing in my friend’s place. “Did you forget to eat?! Answer me! Did you forget to eat?” You shouted. She shook her head. “Then how can you forget your homework?” you asked. A well-meaning logic, sure. She stuttered “I’m… I’m sorry ma’am. I was doing homework on the dining table… I left it there only” in-between tears.
Do you remember what you did to her? _____ Ma’am, today, do you remember what you did to that student?
You made her face the board with her back to the class, lifted her skirt up, her bloomers visible to all of us, you struck her bum with your wooden scale. Two times. Every crack of the wooden scale, she whimpered. “I’m sorry”, “I’m sorry, miss” was all that she could manage. She wet herself.
You thought this was funny because you smiled at the class and jokingly asked her to go to the toilet. “This one time, I’m allowing you to go to the toilet. If you come back smelling, I’ll hit you again” is what you had said when she went running. And then, as if nothing had happened, you began to write something on the board about a concept that I don’t even remember.
I want to consciously forget you. You don’t deserve my headspace.
But I don’t always get what I want.
At some level, I may have sub-conscious anger toward my parents to have sent me to a school that employed you as a teacher. You were already famous as ‘strict’; this was not seen as a red flag, but more of a desirable trait, because apparently, “strict teachers make the best teachers”. Bull-f*cking-shit.
I think I can forgive my parents someday for making me endure this. But I don’t think I can ever forgive you for all the abuse and trauma you’ve made me suffer. Not that it matters to you anyway, but just remember that there are students, students you have “taught”, out there, who are incapable of grasping certain complex concepts even after all this while, because of all the trauma you caused them.
Tomorrow, they will not be able to teach their own children the same things that you were trying to teach. That’s when they’ll feel helpless. They will take it as a personal insult because they wouldn’t be able to help their own children. And at that moment, they will hate you for all the things you’ve managed to do and will curse you with all their heart.
I think you fully deserve all of it.
I’m sure there is a special kind of Hell, waiting to welcome you with bigger wooden scales.
I wish your Hell is as scary and humiliating as it was for all of us.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read this long letter. It was such a privilege.
Best regards,
Haripriya (Batch of 20__)
P.S.
This was inspired by Kunal Shah’s tweet:
